Saturday, April 5, 2008
O, mes amis, je m'excuse ! It's been nearly an entire week since we last celebrated a birthday of someone that no one ever reads anymore except as required for a college lit course. On this day over 170 years ago, English poet Algernon Charles Swinburne screamed his way into this mortal coil.
He would later write some, à mon avis, some groovy stuff, so for your literary edification, here are the first three stanzas from his A Watch In the Night. Given the state of the world, they still resonate a bit, no?
Watchman, what of the night? -
Storm and thunder and rain,
Lights that waver and wane,
Leaving the watchfires unlit.
Only the balefires are bright,
And the flash of the lamps now and then
From a palace where spoilers sit,
Trampling the children of men.
Prophet, what of the night? -
I stand by the verge of the sea,
Banished, uncomforted, free,
Hearing the noise of the waves
And sudden flashes that smite
Some man's tyrannous head,
Thundering, heard among graves
That hide the hosts of his dead.
Mourners, what of the night? -
All night through without sleep
We weep, and we weep, and we weep.
Who shall give us our sons?
Beaks of raven and kite,
Mouths of wolf and of hound,
Give us them back whom the guns
Shot for you dead on the ground.